The Art of Enabling

The room was quiet, too quiet, like the calm before the storm. Quadratic equations were jumping off the page and unfortunately not landing in my brain, so I threw about four pieces of gum into my mouth and begin chewing furiously hoping to concentrate more effectively. It worked for the kids taking the MSP right?

Who was I kidding there were kids at Lakes doing harder math than me.

That’s when it happened.

At first it was just a light vibration followed by a glow. Text. I’ll ignore it. Then it was a flurry of panicked phone calls and four voice messages. She knew I was in class. It must really be important?

Assuming that was my first strike...Calling her back was my second.

“Mommy I’m freaking out and I don’t know what to do.”

My daughter, Brittanie, was “freaking out” because somehow she forgot (yes…I said forgot) she was moving out of her apartment the next day, and she needed help cleaning. "How much cleaning," I asked. “Maybe an hour or so.” She said. "By when," I asked suspiciously. “I have to turn my keys in tomorrow, so we have plenty of time,” She lied.

My husband reminded me we were not enabling Brittanie. She was an adult now and if we kept cleaning up her messes she would never learn to do things on her own. I agreed, but it wasn't like I was doing it for her. I was just helping out. Any parent would help their child in this situation. Right?

I arrived at her apartment with my husband figuring I would be there and hour or so and I would be home in time to watch back episodes of Good Wife (foolish me). We walked into the apartment and saw that not only was the apartment hit by a hurricane but Brittanie hadn’t moved out yet.

She had no cleaning supplies, and it smelled like a fraternity house after spring break. My husband looked over at me and laughed all the way down to his truck. I never saw him again.

I walked through and inspected the damage. There were broken miniblinds, a broken handle to the sliding glass door, boxes and clothes everywhere, and a sucpicious smell coming from the kitchen.

"Brittanie, what is that smell?"  "Oh my power was shut off when I moved into the new apartment," she said. "And..?" I asked fearfully. "I never emptied my refrigerator."

Oh the horror...

For the next four hours (well after midnight) I scrubbed, peeled, scraped and bathed in bleach until Brittanie’s apartment at least looked presentable for guests. I never did get it clean enough to make a landlord happy. Deposit...what deposit.

The funny thing is…I never saw Brittanie clean a thing. Strike three mom… you’re out.